


The Nightmares Are Neverending

by olivemartini



Series: A Study in Sherlock [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Relationship, S1E03, Sharing a Bed, aftermath of pool scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 13:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15120473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivemartini/pseuds/olivemartini
Summary: John's nightmares have stopped.Sherlock's have only just started.





	The Nightmares Are Neverending

John's nightmares have stopped.

Sherlock's haven't.

Or, if he wants to be accurate about it, it's more like they've started, morphing out of what-ifs, so all of a sudden those few hours of sleep he is able to grab have become more torture than relief, lost in half buried memories where he loses and Moriarty laughs and the pictures he is seeing burns with blistering heat, because he had said that Sherlock would burn and he is, dreams where he and John jump into the water but it is just as scalding as the explosion would have been and Sherlock cannot get John out no matter how hard he swims to reach him, dreams where the sniper's thumb slips and the trigger is pulled without reason, dreams where John does not come home with him, or worse, dreams where John comes home and decides to leave and the flat starts to feel too empty.  

The waking up has become unbearable, moments where he wakes with the sheets tangled around his legs and his lungs heaving in an effort to draw breath that does not come, where he scrambles to show himself how the dreams cannot be true because they simply aren't logical ( _ex; John could not have drowned that day because John can swim, you see_ ) but then the what ifs come, what if, what if, what if.  It'd gotten so bad that he had taken to sleeping on the couch when he knows that John is home, pretending to be so tired from a case or nicotine withdrawal or his experiments that he simply falls over in the middle of watching television, never mind the fact that he doesn't even watch television.  

It works, for the most part, because normally he can remember where he is and why he is there and remain calm, open one eye so he can locate John without arising suspicion, find him in his chair or puttering around the kitchen or hearing footsteps creak in the hallway and be able to tell himself that it's okay, everything is fine, that he can breathe again.

But sometimes it doesn't work like that.

Sometimes he wakes up and he knows where he is and he panics anyways, because the dream had seemed so real and John had died, died while he was trying to protect Sherlock and before Sherlock ever got to explain that even though he might seem nonchalant about everyone else's pain he cares so deeply about John, and this time when he woke up he could not stop himself from shouting out, John's name at his lips, panicking in the middle of the sitting room until he realized that John could not be dead, because those are his hands on his shoulders, his face swimming in Sherlock's line of vision, his voice saying Sherlock's name.

He calms quicker, then.  He quiets, closes his eyes and catches his breath, and the whole time, John stays, crouched down in front of him, his hands now splayed over Sherlock's forearms, not holding but not letting go, either.

"Bad dreams?"  John offers, once he has calmed down enough to broach the subject.

Sherlock huffs out a laugh, because the two of them are always laughing at the things that should not be laughed at and this should be no different.  He had watched John go through the same thing, heard his restless wanderings, had tried to help him through the shock waves of entering civilian life by helping him the best way he could ( _though some would argue that dragging him back into battle was not the kindest way to work through PTSD, but opinions do differ_ ), but even with that knowledge that John has been in his shoes, it is significantly more awkward for him.  Then again, John's nightmares never ended with him Sherlock shouting out his name.  "You could say that."

"I used to have them to."  Used to.  John settles down beside him, so close that their shoulders are pressed up against each other, and Sherlock takes a moment to feel some grim satisfaction that the dreams are being talked about in past tense.  "Want to talk about it?"

"It's nothing."  It's something.  "Just the pool.  Moriarty."  You.

"Ah."  John nods like he understands.  Maybe he does.  He's unsettlingly good at knowing Sherlock, but then he falters.  "I don't know how to help you."

He is not offering empty platitudes, at least, reassurances that they have both made it out fine or that John will always be willing to protect him.  He's not that stupid.  Sherlock can tell on his own that they are fine, and John must realize that at least part of the nightmares are about John getting hurt while trying to save Sherlock.

"It's alright."

"I  _want_ to help you.  I just don't-,"  He is not accustomed to feeling useless, his John.  He was an army man, a solider, meant for the fight, for the chase.  That was the mistake about all those therapists.  They thought he needed to push the fight away in order to fit in, but some people, they can't.  The fight is in their blood.  "Tell me how to help you, Sherlock."

It's the name that does it, how he says it, like Sherlock is the most important thing in the world to him, the two syllables filled with undying devotion.  Sherlock can see that now, how they care for each other.  

"Stay with me?"  Sherlock does not know where the words are coming from, but they spill out anyways, on the off chance that John will not think the suggestion strange and will actually stay.  He is desperate enough for a good nights sleep that he's willing to risk a moment of awkwardness.  "It's just- I wake up and I can't find you and the dream feels real, so I don't even want to fall asleep, but if you're beside me?"

He is not asking for much, really.  Just one night, with John sitting beside him, keeping watch, standing guard. Sherlock thinks he might be able to breathe a little better, if he knows that there is someone beside him, someone he can trust.

There have been so very few people in his life that he can trust.

"Alright."  John agrees with surprising ease, and it's the first time that Sherlock realizes that he might have meant it, all those times where he laughed at Sherlock's apologies and told that  _it was fine, completely fine, everything about you is fine._ He's an extraordinary man, this John.  "Just right here?"  

"Yes,"  Sherlock says, already sinking into him, into John's shoulder (the one that hadn't been shot) and down into the cushions, feeling sleep pull at him, and the first time in months, he is not afraid.  "Thank you."

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on Instagram @olive.writes.fanfic


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